Unfinished

I stare at the empty document, the cursor blinking

Eventually the white screen gives way to blackness

Exposing the marks and stains on my laptop I had trained my eyes to ignore.

That didn’t come unnaturally to me,

Being a silent observer as life passed by.

As the once shiny screens became stained after not being cared for

I look around my room

The bedsheet slightly unkempt

The bed at the risk of being inhabited more by belongings than people

The blanket always spread out in anticipation of wrapping me around as I hide under it in shame and pain

The pain which I am unable to access

Because nothing is wrong, well technically

I could always exercise and eat and sleep well

Or I could articulate my pain and get an excuse

But I don’t have one

I am empty inside, waiting for life to happen

There is nowhere better to be

No one I’d rather be with

No place wondrous enough to move me from the prison of my own making

I read things, watch things to move me

To feel something, anything

Finally, I get up to clean up my mess

Remove the curry-stained plates and coffee mugs

Refill my water bottle

Move the towels from my bed

But I keep the bedsheet just like it is.

What is this need to keep things unfinished?

Just enough to get by but never perfect?

The perfect mess, where I pick the clothes from the bed but leave my cupboard disorganized

Choosing not to see, closing the door behind me

Cook something delightful, clean the kitchen, but not the floor

Buy something for my living room but not wholly, never get to complete the decorations

What is the opposite of perfectionism?

Leaving that mark, knowing you’ll come back to it

It can’t be too perfect, or I’ll never be able to make it a mess again

I’ll be too frightened of trying at all.

Like a new box of colors, with all crayons having the sharp edges

So levelled with each other as you graze your hand at the top, it’s hard to start

Or that beautiful diary with its elaborate cover and textured pages

Still lying unopened in my cupboard

What if my thoughts are not worthy enough to fill it with?

What if one day I really have something to write, and it doesn’t have space in it because I already filled it with thoughts nobody ever wanted to hear?

What if the perfect book in my head is really not all that I built it up to be

What if I decorate my living room and never end up living in it?

Frugal by nature, I store diaries, colors, book recommendations, perfect dresses in my shopping cart

Spending them is not nearly as satisfying as I thought it would be

The courage to do something knowing it might not end up feeling as amazing, to take that leap, knowing fully well there might not be a net underneath, is probably for another day

So, I keep the illusion alive

That one day it really would be

Until then,

I leave it imperfect, unfinished.